


raindrop melodies

by izabellwit



Category: Dororo (2019), Dororo (Manga), Dororo - Osamu Tezuka
Genre: Aftermath, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Developing Friendships, Epic Friendship, Families of Choice, Found Family, Gen, set during/after episode 4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-02
Updated: 2019-02-02
Packaged: 2019-10-20 18:35:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17627495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/izabellwit/pseuds/izabellwit
Summary: A hollow victory and new sense brings Hyakkimaru to a revelation. Family is what you make of it.





	raindrop melodies

**Author's Note:**

> So, how about that episode 4, huh?? I had so many thoughts; I wasn’t even sure where to start, ahaha! I must have re-written this thing fives times already...
> 
> Hyakkimaru regaining his hearing was… well, it was kind of a personal moment for me. I'm hard of hearing myself—so I kind of wanted to express in this piece just how much sound can be sometimes. It’s a little opposite, but… overall, overwhelming sound feels kind of the same, I think, whether it’s from losing hearing or abruptly regaining it. Too much to process!!
> 
> Also, please keep in mind, I have only ever watched the 2019 anime!! I have no knowledge of previous adaptations, and this is entirely my own interpretation. With that said— enjoy!

The fight is over and Hyakkimaru has won, but for once the victory tastes hollow on his tongue. 

Even though all the red has faded and demon is gone, Hyakkimaru still has the nagging sense that he’s lost. He doesn’t know how, or why, but he can sense it. He’s missed something, or maybe just stumbled into a situation where every choice is doomed to end in failure. There was nothing else to do but play along, and now they are all left in the aftermath. 

The whole day has felt like this, Hyakkimaru reflects, a little bitter.  _ One of those days.  _ The kind of day where nothing goes as planned. It had started peacefully enough—there had been something soothing about waking early and standing in the rain—but the peace hadn’t lasted. From the moment that stranger’s soul had stumbled into view and faded away, dead at the hand of a demonic blade… well. Everything else had just gone downhill from there. 

_ Figures. I finally find something enjoyable about having a sense of touch, and the demons attack me immediately after. _

It’s like some sort of cosmic joke, except Hyakkimaru isn’t laughing. 

Even now, hours later, he still aches from the day’s events. The cut across his cheek, received hours ago, sends painful tingles of stinging pain whenever the rain hits it. His shoulders are sore from the strain of fighting, pulled taut from harsh blocks and painful maneuvers. His leg, too—Hyakkimaru has used that trick before, using his prosthetics as a way to buy himself the advantage, but he’s never had to live with the aftermath until now. As it turns out, ripping off his prosthetic  _ hurts.  _ Jukai had crafted the limbs special for him, well-fitted and snug so that the wood would hold through all of Hyakkimaru’s childish stunts and more serious fights, which means tearing his leg off is… ugh.  

‘Inadvisable’ is probably putting it likely. 

It’s funny, really. Funny in a sort of ironic way, if he thinks about it. All these things Hyakkimaru has known of but never  _ known _ , and something as simple as having a sense of pain has cast everything in a whole new light… or perhaps just a whole new depth.

This, too, is yet another learning experience. Sound—and, Hyakkimaru thinks, even without ever having a reference for it, he’s almost positive this is what the new sensation must be—sound is something else to adjust to. It’s just one final blow to cap off this whole awful experience, really: losing his leg, having to swing his sword at Dororo, killing a human soul and watching the pale fire flicker and fade. And now, this—  sound, in all its terrible glory.

And it is terrible, Hyakkimaru thinks. It’s  _ horrible.  _ It’s a roar unlike anything Hyakkimaru has ever experienced, a sensation that shakes his bones and makes his head feel as if it’s splitting in two, his ears popping and pain lacing behind his eyes. There’s just—so much.  _ Too _ much. The rumble that rings in his head like fever heat made sound; the drumming of the rain against his skin become soundtrack; the shaking and shuddering flame of the other soul, the one who had taken Hyakkimaru and Dororo in for the night, now accompanied by a broken and stuttering wail that tears at Hyakkimaru’s heart.

Sound, he thinks. This must be sound. This roar, this pain, this drumming. That shattered and cracking thing that pierces his ears and his heart—

Hyakkimaru understands sadness. He knows tears. To his sight, grief is a shaky flicker of a white soul, a fluttering that seems almost fragile. In his experience, tears are the quiet itch behind his eyes, heavy and thick like blood. And while he has known, by guess, that crying is not noiseless… for the first time, Hyakkimaru hears it. This ghastly, grating sound—soft and deep, as if dredged up from the soul itself, echoing louder than even the hissing static of the storm.

_ I did that,  _ Hyakkimaru thinks.  _ I did that.  _ He knows he did. He must have. He hadn’t wanted to, but he had. The soul—they wouldn’t stop. They just wouldn’t stop, and so Hyakkimaru had stopped them instead.

Dororo had kept trying to pull away from the sword, kept trying not to fight—which had nearly given Hyakkimaru a heart attack of his own, when he’d swung down expecting his blade to be parried and nearly took off Dororo’s head instead. But still, the fact remains: Dororo had tried not to fight. But this other soul…

This other soul had taken the blade willing. This soul’s white fire had flared, not quite red but for a moment almost seeming to reflect the same demonic light of the sword. This soul—this other soul had not stopped, and so Hyakkimaru had steeled his own heart and cut them down.

He had cut them down, and now he can hear the crying.

Hyakkimaru exhales, soft and shuddering, tilting his head up to the sky. The rain patters on his face, still pleasant; the drumming in his ears is less so. It hurts. His head is already aching, and this wall of noise isn’t helping. He wants nothing more than to lift his hands and cover his new ears, block the sound as much as he possibly can.

He wants to, but instead Hyakkimaru keeps his hands where they are, limp and loose and useless by his side. He did this. This sound, this awful cry: he’s caused this.

He’s tired, suddenly. Not really sad, not really upset, just… tired. He feels as if the world has suddenly fallen down hard on his shoulders. It takes all he has just to keep his face turned up to the sky.

What would Jukai say, if he could see Hyakkimaru now? He had never liked when Hyakkimaru fought demons. What would he think, to see…?

There’s an itch behind his glass eyes, and Hyakkimaru breathes in slow and shuddering, fighting against the urge to grit his teeth. His wooden fingers flex and twitch at the sudden tension in his shoulder blades. He can hear his own breath—a strange inner sound of air through his teeth. It’s awful. It’s so loud. It’s something he’ll never be able to escape, and worst of all… Hyakkimaru can still hear the crying.

A quiet pressure, a tug on his right prosthetic, brings Hyakkimaru’s head back down. Dororo is there—awake again, one soul-fire hand clutching the fingers of Hyakkimaru’s prosthetic. A soft and breathy babble breaks through the air—close but quiet, not as painful as everything else—and Dororo tugs at Hyakkimaru’s prosthetic again, as if to pull him along.

Another wave of incomprehensible noise washes over him, the same strange high tones. Dororo? Is this Dororo, then? Is this their voice? Is this what they sound like? Their voice is—Hyakkimaru’s not sure. Young, he thinks. Is this what the young sound like? Soft and breathy and cracking, like the snap of thin green twigs, if that feeling could be translated into sound.

Hyakkimaru looks back down at Dororo, to the source of that soft babbling, that quieter sound that distracts from the crying—and when Dororo steps away, tugging insistently at his arm, Hyakkimaru lets himself be led. He’s too tired to pull away, to  _ want _ to pull away. If Hyakkimaru had his way he would stand still until the pain and the noise faded away, but then—it probably never will. This is his world now, sound forcefully included, another painful shift in perception that Hyakkimaru cannot escape. 

He’s so tired. 

But Dororo pulls at his hands and the babbling rises in pitch, wavering, and in his sight he can see Dororo’s soul shivering a little, almost distressed—and so Hyakkimaru goes. He lets Dororo lead him away from the shaking soul and that awful grieving sound, lets the soft-packed mud of the village roads give way to the softer forest paths beneath his bare foot. Hyakkimaru leaves the village and that sound behind, but the echo lingers in his ears.

Dororo squeezes his hand, the pressure pulling at the joint connecting Hyakkimaru’s arm to his shoulder. They’re pulling Hyakkimaru forward, still moving at a brisk pace, but their grip has shifted, less leading and more just… holding. They squeeze at Hyakkimaru’s hand again, and falter in their steps, walking beside instead of in-front, as if trying to hide against his side.

A quiet mutter rises above the drip of rainwater. Dororo clutches at Hyakkimaru’s hand a little tighter. The babble rises again— sharper, more petulant. It matches the sudden waiver of their soul.  _ This is for  _ you,  _ not me,  _ Dororo seems to be saying.  _ I don’t need your comfort.  _

But they stick by Hyakkimaru’s side regardless.

Hyakkimaru looks at Dororo and feels a warmth flicker to life in his chest, something quiet and small. He twists the prosthetic hand in Dororo’s grip, and twitches his fingers around that small palm, a mimicry of Dororo’s own hold. 

Hyakkimaru is tired, drained, overwhelmed. But the world is little easier to swallow, out here in the comforting blankness of the woods, and Dororo is still by his side—safe, unharmed, and still moving, with that same rapid brightness that is so characteristic to their small soul. Dororo seems subdued, but the brightness hasn’t faded. They’re okay. Despite today, they’re still okay.

Hyakkimaru’s knowledge of family is limited—Jukai is the only family Hyakkimaru has ever known; the only family he has ever cared to have. But he thinks—maybe—maybe Dororo counts, too. Maybe Dororo is family. Someone little, someone who follows at his heels and waves for his attention—someone a bit like a younger sibling, or at least similar to what Hyakkimaru has always imagined little siblings to be like.

Hyakkimaru holds Dororo’s hand best he can. The world is roaring in his ears, his body aches like an old bruise, and the memory of that soul’s wailing is still ringing loud in his head— 

But Dororo is by his side, and Hyakkimaru is not alone. 

It’s enough. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I’m pretty sure this episode was the first episode in which Dororo calls Hyakkimaru “aniki,” or brother, so I really wanted to reflect that same feeling here as well, in Hyakkimaru’s pov. Just as Dororo sees Hyakkimaru as a sort-of older brother figure, in his own way, Hyakkimaru is starting to see himself as responsible for Dororo, too!! At least, that’s my reading of that episode, ahaha. 
> 
> If you have any questions or just want to talk, [my tumblr](http://izaswritings.tumblr.com) is always open!!
> 
> Any thoughts?


End file.
